


Nothing Alike

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:32:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6311686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a long week for Jason when Damian shows up to speak with him; joining him on the rooftop he's trying to relax on. It almost works, at least until Damian brings up the idea of them becoming closer. You know, since they've both died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Alike

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So this is an idea I had a while ago, and I finally wrote it. It was born of my immense hatred of the fact that there was like... no reaction to Damian's death? From anyone but Bruce? Honestly, Jason should have been so pissed off at the whole situation. So anyway, this came out of my desire to see any actual reaction to that. It's really painful; upfront warning. Enjoy!

The smoke of the cigarette burns my mouth, my throat, and I let it. It’s a good burn, a cleansing burn that lets me ignore the ache of bones that forgot they were shattered and scars that I never remember having. The tangible burn is easier to deal with, easier to focus on and manage than the phantom pain of injuries I remember getting but not healing from.

It’s one of the many side effects of the Pit that I’ll never understand. Sometimes my bones ache like they just remembered the Joker shattered most of them to tiny pieces, and I can’t do more than throw painkillers in my mouth and try and ignore it till it goes away. Or sometimes my skin will feel like it’s fresh scar tissue that’s stretching, stinging and sensitive to the touch of anything heavier than air but I don’t _remember_ ever having scars that large or that obvious. The worst times are when my lungs _burn_ and every breath tastes like ash and smoke until I choke on it, or there’s the sharp pain across my chest in a distinctive Y-pattern I recognize from seeing the bodies of a hundred autopsied victims.

There are times I wish that I could remember what those scars were like, but most of the time I thank whatever sadistic, piece of _shit_ God there is that I don’t, and that I probably never will. Why would I want to remember more pain? I have enough in my head as it is.

I finish the cigarette, light another one against the faint whisper in my head that tells me I shouldn’t. The whisper that sounds like Roy’s voice, if I’m honest, but he’s a few cities away and not close enough to stop me even if he knew I was abusing the nicotine. I should call him; I should let him talk me down and get me home again. I know I should.

I also know that I feel worse than I have in weeks, and Roy has enough shit to deal with on his own. He doesn’t need the responsibility of taking care of my fucked up head on top of everything else in his life, and I’m not enough of a bastard to shove my way to the top of his priority list. He’s got work; I’ll manage.

“Red.”

The only reason I don’t flinch is a lot of practice at controlling my reactions to people sneaking up on me. So I turn my head slowly instead, enough that I can match the red and green costume and black hood to the adolescent, eternally grudging voice.

“Robin,” I shoot back sarcastically, not bothering to get up from my seat at the edge of the too-tall building.

A little flicker of distaste slides across the brat’s face, as he steps closer. “Do not bring up _Drake_ ,” he says, with all the self-importance and disgust that only a pre-teen assassin could manage to convey.

“What do you want?” I ask bluntly, not in the mood to play or beat around the bush.

Damian pauses for a moment, and then — his voice as stiff as his back — says, “I wish to talk.”

I snort, and then drag in another burning breath of toxic smoke as I look out at Gotham’s skyline. “No one’s stopping you, kid.”

It’s a slow approach, but after a few moments Damian is sinking down to sit next to me. There’s still a couple of feet between his shoulder and mine, but it’s close enough for either of us to do damage if we felt like it. The way he reaches up and flips back his hood is just a little hesitant, with a little too much jerkiness in the movement of his hands. He’s unsure of himself; that’s gotta be a new feeling for the kid.

“Are you staying in Gotham?” he asks, following my gaze out into the city before returning it to my face. He’s got his mask on, but I’ve had a lot of practice reading what people in masks are paying attention to. Invaluable skill in our circles.

“For now,” I answer noncommittally, and then flick the extra ash off my cigarette. “Either tell me what you want or fuck off, kid. I’m not in the mood to play games.”

“I thought—” He cuts off, and then clears his throat and starts again. “We’re fewer than we were, now that Grayson is… Gone. I thought it would be a prudent idea to confirm what allies I have left, and… And perhaps attempt to strengthen those alliances.”

I blink, trying to figure out what the _fuck_ the kid is talking about on top of pushing away the black hole of pain and anger in the pit of my stomach at the thought of my dead brother. Of _Dick_. He should never have been the one to die. He should _never_ have been the scapegoat sacrifice for the Crime Syndicate’s stupid attempt at taking over the world. I should have been here when it happened, and maybe I could have tried to help instead of coming back to a wrecked world and Dick’s face plastered over all the news. Maybe I could have done something.

“You want to be _friends?_ ” I ask, a little incredulously. “I’ll watch your back kid, for the family’s sake, but if you want to talk _feelings_ and paint each other’s nails you should find someone else.”

“Why would I—? You make _no_ sense, Todd.” He shakes his head, sneers for just a second, and then seems to forcibly wipe that expression off his face as he breathes in again. Then he grimaces, raising a hand to wave away the air in front of him. “Why do you insist on harming your body with those poisonous things?” he demands, not even trying to hide the disgust in his tone.

“Because it pisses all of you off,” I snap back, and then flash him a snarled grin that isn’t even remotely real. “Pissing all you Bats off is _kind_ of a favorite hobby of mine. Don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

“I’ve noticed you lash out when people get too close to the truth,” he counters, and _damn_ him but that accusation is a dead center bullseye. Not that anyone ever needed to know that about me, though I’m sure the rest of the family already does. “I did not come to fight, Todd.”

“That’d be a first.”

“I only wanted to say that I believe I understand you more now than I did before, and when the next one of us dies I do not wish to leave things between us sour. I would like our relationship to be more than simply the unavoidable bond of being called brothers, if you are amenable to the idea, and I am willing to… compromise, to see that happen. If you are as well.”

Which is great and all but my mind zeroes in on the wording. On that very first sentence.

“You ‘ _understand_ ’ me more?” I repeat, staring at him. “What the hell does that mean?”

Damian has that same faint hesitance to his expression, but the kid’s nothing if not stubborn. “Now that I’ve also… Returned. It has given me a new perspective on why you act like you do, and—” He keeps talking, but I stop hearing him.

I can only stare, cigarette forgotten as my mind tunnels in and white hot _rage_ curls sickly at the base of my chest. Growing with every second, spreading up my lungs, into my throat, taking over my mind before I can even think to fight it. It’s fury, pain, disbelief, and it _screams_ in my skull as my mouth curls into something like a snarl.

Damian is looking out at the city, and that’s probably why I catch him off guard. Either way, he doesn’t react fast enough when I turn on him, grabbing him by the front of his suit and _slamming_ him onto his back with all of my considerable strength. I can hear the breath whoosh out of him, see the pain on his face as I crouch over him. I want him to hurt, to bleed, and the last rational part of my mind somehow manages to get enough control that instead of making that happen I pick him up and fling him back across the rooftop. He hits hard, rolls against the gravel, and then slams up against the cement wall of the building’s rooftop stairwell.

I stalk towards where he’s lying, leaving my helmet by the ledge as he struggles to his feet. He’s winded, stunned, and when he manages to get to standing he gasps and presses one arm to his left side like he’s got a cracked rib.

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me?!” I shout, taking the wild slam of his fist into my side in exchange for grabbing his head and slamming it back against the wall. It barely even hurts. “You stupid little _bastard_ ,” I snarl down at him, grabbing his arms and lifting him into the air to slam him back against the wall. If he wasn’t stunned enough before, he definitely is now.

“ _Todd_ ,” he gasps, and I tighten my grip on his arms, shoving him harder into the wall.

“You think you know me?” My words come out a rumbling growl, dark with rage and hatred and everything I should never let myself give in to. “You think because some fucked up clone put a sword through your chest, you _understand_ me?!” I can’t help shaking him, even when his face tightens with pain. “You are _nothing_ like me, you entitled, naive, _child_. You think you know what death feels like? You think you have any _idea_ what I went through?!”

I laugh, shoving him against the wall one more time before I let go and jerk myself away. Before I can hurt him any more, before I can make a mistake that I can’t walk away from. He slides to the ground, curling in on his ribs as he watches me, his chest rising in sharp little starts as he tries to breathe. My own breaths are coming sharp and fast, my hands clenched into fists so tight it almost hurts, and even through all of that I can feel the ache in my bones that will _never_ go away.

“Let me tell you something about your _death_ , Damian.” The pain I pushed away is rising, the constant barrage of questions I had where I wondered _why_ Damian got off so much easier than I did. Why it was so _easy_ for him when I had to suffer for every single moment of it. “Your death was _fast_ , it was fair, and when you came back it was _easy_. You had the family right there, you had a father that moved heaven and hell to get you back and would _not_ take no for an answer.” A bitter laugh squeezes its way out of my throat, and I _strangle_ back the desire to lunge forward and _hurt_ Damian. “You came back with goddamn _superpowers_. So don’t you _fucking_ dare compare us, you understand me? Don’t you _dare!_ ”

Damian draws in on himself a little further, one hand falling to his belt and coming out with a batarang that he clutches like a lifeline. Like it’s going to protect him.

“ _You_ never had to fight through being beaten, and _broken_ , to try and save your own Mother from dying in the same blast you were going to. _You_ didn’t have to lie there in the rubble and choke on the smoke, blasted all to hell back and _knowing_ no one was going to be there in time to get you out.” My throat is tight, my hands clenching even harder to stop them from shaking. “You didn’t wake up still in agony, buried in the _goddamn_ ground, and have to claw your way out of it. You didn’t _suffocate_ on the dirt, or taste it in your throat, or _scream_ for someone to help you and not have a fucking soul answer.”

Damian shifts back a couple of inches, dragging in a deep enough breath to say a quiet, “ _Todd_ , stop. You are—”

“ _Nothing_ like you,” I snarl. “Do _you_ have these empty stretches in your head where there should be memories? Do you know what it’s like to be _forgotten_ , and _replaced_ , and never have anyone even notice that you weren’t dead? Do you have any _idea_ what it feels like to believe in something, in _someone_ , and then have them let you down over, and over, and _over?!_ You’re a spoiled, arrogant, _child_ trying to fill shoes too big for him. News flash, kid! You’re not Batman; you’ll _never_ be Batman, and you’re sure as fuck not as good a Robin as Dick was. _None_ of us are.” My breath catches, and I bare my teeth as I grind out, “So you keep his _fucking_ memory at peace where it should be, and don’t you _ever_ use his death to try to get me to do something. Not _ever_.”

I pull myself back another step, and then force my hands to loosen from their tight fists. Damian is staring at me, his eyes wide behind that mask and his expression stunned. Too much of me is _viciously_ satisfied by it.

I swallow, and pull my gaze away from his curled form so it’s not tempting me to hurt him more. “If you’ve got any sense,” I force out, “you’ll keep your mouth shut and let me walk off this roof, Damian. Just… Just go home. Stay away from me.”

I force myself to turn around and head for my helmet, to not look back, to jump off the side of the roof instead of turning around again because that’s safer. My control is shaky at best, and it’s not quite the same as the white, burning, _fury_ of before but it’s still too dangerous for me to be around him. If I really hurt him… If I _kill_ him…

The family’s lost enough. We can’t take another hit.

I channel my anger into as much focus as I can manage, so I can get to my bike and get the hell out of the neighborhood. It’s only when I’m far enough away that I slow down enough to call Roy through the communications interface in my helmet. It rings twice — knowing him, Roy’s got his hands deep in the guts of some random piece of hardware — before he picks up.

_“Jason! Oh man, so I found out the **coolest** thing. If I just twist the wires on this—”_

“Roy,” I start, cutting him off before he can go on too far a tangent, “I— I need you in Gotham. Or somewhere close.”

I hear the clank of metal, and his voice drops into a lower pitch as he focuses. _“I’m on my way. Stay on the line with me, Jason. Can you tell me where you are? What happened?”_

“Gotham,” I answer, glancing up off the streets to pinpoint where I am. “Downtown. I’m just _moving_ ; can’t stay still. There’s the— the tracker in my bike, so you’ll know.” I take a sharp turn, skidding down a side street and ignoring the horns, ignoring everything but the weight of the bike for just that moment. “Been awful all night,” I manage to get out. “Aching, _raw_. Damian showed up and I— I snapped at him. I think I broke one of his ribs; probably got a concussion too.”

_“Hey. Jason, **hey**. Don’t focus on that, alright? Can you make it as far as our Metropolis safe house, or do you need to go to one of the Gotham ones?”_

I drag in a deeper breath, grit my teeth for a second. “I can make it,” I answer, as I turn the bike with another screech of tires.

_“I’ll meet you there. You keep this line open, you understand me, Jason? I’ll be in your ear the whole time, Jaybird, all you have to do is listen. Can you listen for me?”_

I speed the bike up a little more. “I’ll try.”

* * *

Roy’s at the safe house by the time I get there, and I’ve settled into something like forced numbness. It’s better than the anger, easier to control, and I know pushing it down like this will come back to bite me in the ass later but that’s a sacrifice I have to make right now. It’s better than letting that anger fester in me while I’m around Roy; I never want him to take the brunt of the rage I’m capable of.

I park my bike in front of the garage, activating the security on it before I slide off and head for the door of the suburban house. Last place anyone would think to look for Roy and me. He’s still talking in my ear, chattering away about projects and ideas and random things I can only barely understand. It’s his voice that soothes me, and that keeps me steady enough to regain some measure of control.

I unlock the door and slip inside, and immediately I get the echo of Roy speaking in my ear and outside my head at the same time. He cuts off only an instant later though, pausing in what I’m pretty sure was the well worn track he’s been pacing as I shut the door again.

“And you know what the best thing is?” he asks, voice soft. I click the release on my helmet, dropping it off to the side as Roy’s expression breaks into a wonderful, _bright_ smile. “I’ve got _the_ most amazing boyfriend at my door, and he’s just about the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.” He clicks off the phone at his ear, tosses it to the floor like it doesn’t even matter as he approaches me. “Hey, babe.”

“Hey,” I manage to respond with, taking in the messy, grease-stained white tank top he’s wearing and the barefoot-with-sweatpants look. He must have come straight from his workshop without even taking the time to change.

He pauses in front of me, a touch of sadness in his expression but not pity. Never pity. “Can I touch you, Jaybird?”

I hesitate, considering the way most of my skin feels like brand new scar tissue, shiny and raw to the touch. _Sensitive_. I decide on nodding, and then adding, “Careful.” He’ll understand.

Roy slowly lifts a hand, very gently tracing his fingers back along my cheek. The touch grates along my senses like nails on a chalkboard, but I lean into it anyway. “Want out of all of that armor? Soft blanket?” I give another small nod, and he leans forward and presses a very soft kiss to my cheek as well. It almost doesn’t feel uncomfortable. “Come on, Jaybird. Come out to the couch. You strip down as much as you want to, and I’ll grab that blanket for you so you can wrap up in it.”

I let him lead me towards the living room of the house, his hand hovering at the back of my shoulder but not actually touching me at any point. When he has me near the couch he does very carefully press another brush of a kiss to my jaw before pulling away. Stiffly, I start to strip out of my clothing. Jacket, gloves, boots, armor, and then finally my weapons. That’s about when Roy gets back, and I watch him fling the absolutely massive black blanket over the couch to cover it. There’s still more than enough to wrap down over and around me; I know. Then he turns his back, sitting on the far arm of the couch and waiting for me to be done.

I appreciate it. When I feel like this my own comfort in my body plummets, and I can barely stand for anyone to see me outside of armor, let alone naked. Luckily, Roy understands that. He’s been through his own hells.

I hesitate, decide I can’t stomach being bare right now, and then slip forward to get on the couch and pull the blanket down over me. It aggravates my skin less than the rougher armor did, and I make sure I’m covered neck to toe before stretching my leg out and nudging the small of Roy’s back. He turns around, sliding down off of the arm so he can kneel next to me instead.

“Want me holding you?” is his next question.

I shift my head in another nod, and curl myself up to sitting to make room. He gets in behind me at the end of the couch, and then carefully guides me back down to lie on his chest, my head tucked beneath his chin. My aching bones don’t like it much, but I just grimace and weather the pain. Roy stays still as I shift to try and find a better spot, but nothing works and I give up in frustration, closing my eyes against his neck.

“How long have you been in this kind of pain, Jaybird?” Roy asks, his voice low and soft. “It looks pretty bad.”

“Just today,” I murmur, trying not to move. If I don’t move I only ache, I don’t have to deal with every touch making my skin feel scrubbed raw all over again. “It’s steady and I… I manage.”

“Is there anything you want? I know you’ve said there’s nothing I can do, but… Anything you want me to grab, Jason, you just let me know. Painkillers? Water? The best hug I can manage without hurting you any worse?”

I snort, and extract a hand from my cocoon of blankets just far enough that I can lay it over his heart and curl it into the fabric of his shirt. It stings like my hand’s missing the first few layers of flesh, but I push that feeling away. “Just be here,” I plead, and Roy hums something gentle in acknowledgement.

The rise and fall of his chest is carefully shallow. “Can you tell me what happened earlier? With Damian? You don’t have to, Jaybird, you know that. But uh, should I be expecting angry calls or sudden Bat sightings?”

I take in a shallow breath, squeeze my eyes shut for a second, and push the still present anger farther down. Or I _try_ to. “He compared our deaths,” I tell Roy, and I feel the sharp stutter of his breathing.

“He _what?_ ” Roy’s voice rises, and there’s an anger there almost like mine. “Do you want me to hurt him, Jay? ‘Cause I will. If that little _shit_ thought he could get away with mocking you or taunting you—”

“He didn’t.” Mostly I speak to cut off Roy’s anger, before my own reacts to it too badly. Not that it helps; I can feel it leaking past my control and staining my mind again. “He just… He was just there to talk. He said something about understanding me because we’d both died, that he wanted something more than forced family relationships before one of us died again, and I… I snapped. Stunned him before he even knew what I was doing, shouted him down, said _exactly_ what I knew would hurt him. He didn’t deserve it.”

“Jason—”

“He didn’t _deserve_ it,” I repeat, trying to grind that thought into my head. “He didn’t…” I choke on the rising swell of anger, my teeth gritting together as I clench my hand in Roy’s shirt. I hold it back for one second, two, and then it floods past my control. “Why is it so _fucking_ easy for him?” I hiss, my shoulders jerking in a sharp shudder. “Why does he get it _all_ and the rest of us get _nothing?_ ”

Roy doesn’t offer any answer, not that I even want one. He’s too good for me, he’s too _kind_ , and suddenly I can’t stand being near him for another second. Can’t stand the chance that I might _infect_ him with any of this black hatred in my gut. I push up, pulling away from the loose grip of his arms and throwing the blanket back so I can get off the couch. It hurts to move, but it’s better than staying still, better than trying to deal with all of this excess energy without the release of movement to soften the coiling spring in my chest.

I get past the couch to a more empty spot, my hands rising to tunnel through and tug at my hair as I pace. “He’s not better than me,” I snarl, keeping my gaze on the floor so I don’t aim it at Roy. “Little piece of _shit_ has blood on his hands just like me, he’s not better, he’s not some pure thing that needs to be protected! He’s not! _Why_ does he get all the lucky breaks and I get _nothing?!_ ”

The snarl has curled my mouth into something like a sneer, something furious and dangerous, and I regret it instantly when Roy stands and I _look_ at him. He winces a bit, and I jerk my gaze away and tug harder at my hair. Trying to focus on the pain, trying to calm down but I can’t even think past the _hatred_.

“Why him?” I demand, my voice lowering only to raise again. “Why does he get the family, and the praise, and the _fucking_ acceptance and I _don’t?!_ Why does Bruce—” The words strangle themselves in my throat, and all I can shout is, “ _Why?!_ ”

I can hear the soft pad of Roy’s footsteps, and then his fingers are wrapping around my wrists and pulling, gentle but firm. “Stop. Jaybird, stop.” His voice is just the same as his grip, and I shudder and let go of my hair so he can pull my hands down. “Tell me the questions, Jaybird, alright? Can you talk to me?”

Another shudder shakes me, but I don’t fight him. I could _never_ fight him, not even in the moments where the fury eats me alive and all I can do is _scream_. “It’s not fair,” I grind out, staring at the wrap of his pale hands around my slightly tanner wrists. “It’s not _fair_. What makes him special? Why will Bruce tear apart the fucking world for this arrogant, disobedient, _assassin_ kid but he wouldn’t for me?” My breath catches, and my voice cracks as I whisper, “ _Won’t_ for Dick?” The anger is draining from me as fast as it came, and I try to cling to it, try to keep it with me because all that’s left over is _pain_.

I can barely _breathe_.

“What’s _wrong_ with the world?” I ask, _beg_ to know. “ _God_ , if Bruce was going to fight that hard for anyone it should have been Dick. It doesn’t make any _sense_ ; Damian’s not— Dick was the _best_ of us, was _always_ the best.” My legs crumple underneath me, and I hit my knees with a solid thud that aches almost as much as my chest. Almost as much as all the pain and the grief that I’ve been trying not to face since I came back from a different planet and Dick was _dead_.

The tears slip from my eyes, and I bow my head so I can squeeze them shut and try not to gasp at how much I _hurt_.

“ _Why?_ ”

Roy’s arms slide around me, dragging across my skin like the grate of asphalt as he pulls me in against his chest. I don’t know when he got down to his knees, but he’s steady and I realize that I’m shaking in comparison, that any hope of controlling myself is gone. So I wrap my arms around him to clutch at his back, pressing my face into his shoulder as I cry.

“Oh, Jaybird,” he whispers. “I don’t know, babe. I’m so sorry, but I don’t know.” He squeezes me a little harder for a second, and then kisses the top of my head and says, “But I wouldn’t trade him for you, Jaybird.”

I give a half-unhinged laugh into his collarbone, and manage to force out, “ _I_ would.” And a terrible thought occurs to me. A brilliant thought. _Insanity_. I pull back a bit from Roy, my body barely obeying me as I try to get to my feet. “I can; there’s the _Pit_ and I can—”

Roy _yanks_ me back down, grabbing my face with both hands and forcing me to look right at him. “No. Jason, _no_. _Think_ about what the Pit did to you, what it’s _still_ doing to you. Think about all those side effects; the nightmares, the pain, the temper. You don’t want to put Dick through all of that too, Jason. You know you don’t.”

“But—”

“It’s _not worth it_ , Jason. Even if it somehow works again, it would _hurt_ Dick. Even if you could save him, even if you could teach him to fight it, you _know_ that it would be agony for him just like it is for you. _Don’t_ do that to someone else, babe. Don’t.”

I curl my hands into Roy’s shirt again, trying to make him understand, trying to make him _see_. “He was _better_ than me,” I press.

Roy pulls me into a kiss that’s hard and desperate, that tastes like salt and is too wet from my tears to be good, but I still shake at the touch and whimper at the feeling behind it. “I _don’t_ believe that,” Roy whispers against my mouth, his voice uncompromising and solid. “Even if he was, that doesn’t mean he was _stronger_ , Jason. You have the most _incredible_ will and that’s why you’re still sane; you _know_ that. Don’t test someone else like that. I know it— _God_ , I know it hurts, babe — I _know_ — but you’ve gotta stay with me, alright? Don’t let all that pain convince you to do something you’ll regret, _please_.”

I sob out a breath, and he drags me into a real embrace until my weight is resting on him. “Stop me,” I beg against his shoulder. “ _Please_ , stop me.”

“Always,” he promises. “I will _always_ be here for you, Jason.” He gives a laugh that’s quiet, that shakes a bit. “You talk me out of my mistakes I talk you out of yours, remember? That’s how this works, babe.”

And the thing is, I believe him.


End file.
